


Scarred, Weak, Freak... Strong

by Deerstalker221



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Depression, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson is a Saint, John to the Rescue, Loving John, M/M, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-06-14
Packaged: 2018-07-15 02:30:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7202690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deerstalker221/pseuds/Deerstalker221
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock suffers with an anxiety disorder. Prompt for mind-palace-dungeon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scarred, Weak, Freak... Strong

From the table beside the sofa, a ping could be heard as Sherlock's phone vibrated; begging to be noticed by the detective. He reached over and glanced at the screen.

**On my way home, see you soon. JW**

Taking a deep inhalation, Sherlock stood from the sofa. His stomach fluttered with excitement at the thought of how he and John would spend their night together. He glanced towards the kettle and smirked. If he were to make John a cup of tea, they could speed past the greetings and move onto the sex that Sherlock oh so desperately craved. He swanned towards the kettle, filled it and flicked the switch. Sure enough there was a slow growl that told the room water was boiling. He pulled John's cup from the cupboard and filled a strainer with tea leaves before resting it on the brim of John's mug. A twinge of Sherlock's bladder alerted him to the call of nature, he glanced at the kettle and saw that he had enough time for a brief trip to the bathroom.

After emptying his bladder, Sherlock caught his own eyes in the bathroom mirror as he began to wash his hands.  _Why would John want to have sex with you?_   The all too familiar voice in his head taunted him. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to silence his self-hating thoughts.  _You're littered with scars from both a needle and a razor blade. All by your own hand. Disgraceful._ Sherlock's begging silver eyes met their reflection in the mirror, it was as if they were trying to bury deep down inside himself to try and shut the voice up. "Please." He begged in a soft broken voice to no one. "Please leave me alone."

 _You're a waste of space. Why would anyone want someone as damaged as you?_  "No!" Sherlock screamed and smashed his hand into the side of the basin. A shattering crash sounded and echoed throughout the small bathroom, shards of glass littered the floor. The detective hadn't even felt himself reach out to take the cup in hand before he collided it into the sink. 

Grey-blue eyes gazed at the floor around him as he saw each glistening and shining shrapnel of the glass. Each twinkle seemed to be a shrill mocking laugh filling Sherlock's mind and pricking his eardrums. He reached up to his head and clasped his hands around his ears.  _Disgusting_. "Please, stop!" He screamed and sank to the floor, his knees swallowing the glass. A gasp slipped through trembling lips as his breath left him. He couldn't get it back, it was as if he was surrounded by sand, the light slowly disappearing and with each shaky exhale the sand closed tighter around him, making it impossible to catch his breath. Resigned to wild panting, Sherlock forced his eyes open and began tugging at his hair.

_You're not worth anything!_

_You're disgraceful._

_Unwanted._

_A failure._

_Broken._

_Scarred._

_Weak._

**_Freak._ **

Each insult was thrown at him by that vile and hateful voice swimming in his head. It seemed so loud that it could have been a real person crouched beside him. Their voice slithering into his ears as they whispered, their rot-stench breath poisoning Sherlock's own lungs as he tried his best to breath.  _You really are a failure, you can't even breath properly._ "Agh! Stop!" He screamed, and in a fit of blind panic, Sherlock curled tighter around himself, the glass cutting deep into him. The pain was a safe home that encompassed him, it's biting touch shaking his very bones as it reminded him what was real and what wasn't. The detective began to grind his body into the glass, his muscles twitching. How could anyone love him? Such a damaged person as he obviously was.   
"Sherlock?" John's sun-filled voice tore a hole in the darkness. John was home. A new wave of panic filled Sherlock, John couldn't see him this way. Hyperventilation renewed, Sherlock clenched his eyes tight and screamed, trying his hardest to regain control of his trembling body. 

"Sherlock? Are you in there? What's wrong?" The worry in John's voice all too evident. A wave of knocks rattled against the wood as John tried desperately to get Sherlock's attention. "Sherlock. Answer the door." He ordered, although the command had no 'demand' just cold and damp worry. "Alright I'm coming in!" John called and opened the door. His blue eyes shot throughout the place in an attempt to find his lover before they rested on the figure curled on the floor.

"Oh my God." John gasped as he saw Sherlock's body shaking, his chest heaving with each stuttering and too-short breath all framed by the surrounding puddle of red. Without saying another word, John knelt beside Sherlock. "Sherlock, what happened?" He asked softly, trying with the mere tone of his voice to calm the man. A high keening wine, that should not have been able to come from John's strong and amazing boyfriend.   
"Tell them to leave me alone. Make them go away." Sherlock whimpered.

John glanced around again but found no one, settling on the realisation that whoever was tormenting Sherlock was inside the man's head. The doctor reached out a hand and gently, oh so gently, slipped it into the soft curls. "Shh, I'm here. Sherlock, I'm here." He tried to soothe him, but came back fruitless as Sherlock continued to whimper and cry in his hyperventilating state.

John was grasping at straws. Before he could move Sherlock, he had to get the man to relax, to allow John to maneuver him. Trying to help him now could result in a panic worse than the current attack. "Sherlock." John's voice hardened slightly, growing more stern as he tried to get the detective to listen to him. "Sherlock I want you to answer my questions, okay?" He asked and was rewarded with a soft and subtle nod of Sherlock's head. "Good, well done. Can you tell me what is the first element of the periodic table?" John asked.  
  
After seconds of silence, Sherlock muttered softly, "H-Hydrogen" John's eyes brightened with hope.  
"Well done, my love. Can you tell me the atomic number?" He asked.  
Again, after a few seconds Sherlock replied. "One."  
John grinned and leaned down to kiss the other man's head, "You're fantastic, well done. Can you tell me the atomic mass?"  
"1.008." Sherlock panted, his voice slowly calming. The detective's lungs were still erratically breathing, inhaling and exhaling quickly.  
"And can you go through the periodic table for me in the same way?" John asked, his voice gentle as he stroked his fingertips over Sherlock's scalp.  
"Helium. 2 and... 4.003." Sherlock recited, like a young school boy desperate to get his times tales right.  
"Well done can you continue for me?" John asked.

Sherlock had recalled half of the elements, their atomic numbers and masses by the time he had began to calm down. John allowed the man to continue talking as he slowly maneuvered him from the bathroom and to the bedroom, where he deposited the detective on the bed. "There, how are you feeling now?" John asked, his eyes glancing worriedly at Sherlock as the man's breathing slowly returned to it's usual gentle puffs. Sherlock nodded in a response, his eyes tired. 

As a doctor, John had seen plenty of panic attacks in his time and thus he knew how to calm majority of people down, he thanked every deity he knew for allowing him to calm his lover to the extent that he was able to. "I'm proud of you, Sherlock. Let's get these clothes off and clean you up, yeah?" John asked as he knelt and began to unbutton Sherlock's trousers. Said detective nodded again in way of answering and allowed the man to slowly take the ribbons of clothing off. 

Once naked, John wiped Sherlock of the trickles of both dried and fresh blood. In his hand was a warm wet cloth and he was gently dabbing each gauge and scratch. With the help of the rhythmic strokes of the soft heated cloth and John's sun-lit voice, Sherlock slowly returned to himself and he opened his eyes calmly and glanced down at John. "I'm... I'm sorry that you had to see that." He muttered, self consciousness tightening each individual rib around Sherlock's chest.

John shook his head, "You don't have to apologise. I just... What was the trigger?" He asked softly, his bright eyes focusing on the deeper wounds at Sherlock's knees. The detective shook his head, puzzled by his own actions.  
"I started thinking really horrible things about myself, and when I couldn't get it to stop, I panicked." Sherlock's voice was quiet, almost a whisper. He didn't even know if John would have been able to hear him. But before he could allow for John to answer or acknowledge what he'd said, Sherlock sat bolt upright, eyes frantic. "John. Please don't leave me." He begged.

John looked up then. His eyes swimming with confusion, shock and worry. "Why would I leave you?" He asked and it seemed so obvious to Sherlock.  
"I'm damaged." He whimpered. "Weak. It's right what Donovan says about me. I'm a freak." Sherlock whimpered.

When no sound was heard from John, Sherlock glanced down, to check if the doctor hadn't fled the room. But what he saw was enough to make Sherlock's breath hitch and his heart twinge with pain at John's shocked, hurt and sorrowful expression. "You're not damaged, Sherlock. You're not weak and you're not a freak." He ground his teeth. "And I will never leave you, especially not for something like. Not for something like this." He clarified and sat beside his lover. "Do you think that I'm weak, a freak or even damaged?" He asked.  
To this question, Sherlock's head snapped to John, his eyebrows pinched in concern. "No, of course not." He muttered and rested a hand on the Soldier's arm.

John nodded. "I have scars, I have a form of anxiety - PTSD - I also used to have a psychosomatic limp." John pointed out.  
Curls bouncing, Sherlock shook his head. "Your scar and PTSD are from the war, they're valid. Not self inflicted, and your psychosomatic limp was psychological."  
John's answering smile was humorless. He looked at Sherlock's hand on his arm, took it in his own and connected their eyes. "Yes they're from a war, but each day you are fighting a war too. Anxiety doesn't make you weak and depression doesn't make you a freak. You fight each and every day with an invisible illness that no one can see but you. That, Sherlock Holmes makes you very strong, and I don't blame you for having an attack every now and then, you can't keep it in check all the time." He smiled softly and ran his fingers gently over Sherlock's track marks and self inflicted scars. "These are your war wounds, they show just how strong you are for fighting every day." He brought Sherlock's arm up to his lips and kissed each scar. "I'm not the only soldier here." He smiled softly.

Still in awe at what his lover had said, he didn't register when John declared that he had to clean up the glass in the bathroom and by the time he had come out of his trance, listening to John's words on repeat, he smiled at the doctor re-entering the room. "Now let's get your knees covered up," He said and sunk down onto his haunches before the detective. John's nimble fingers had the large plaster out of it's packaging and on Sherlock's knees in seconds and before long he was softly running his fingers over the soft band aids.

"John?"

Said man glanced up to Sherlock. "Yes, my love?"  
"Will you hold me; lay with me?" Sherlock asked, his voice small and insecure.  
John smiled and nodded. "I'd love to." 

The doctor climbed onto the bed and wrapped his body around Sherlock's, before long the two were slowly falling asleep, nuzzling each other. The two soldiers loving so dearly and so sweetly, laying in harmony and peace.

 


End file.
